Return
by KathSon-NinLock
Summary: A Post-Reichenbach reunion fic. You know the drill - tears, angst, anger and don't forget the most important part - Slash! Written as a RP. Rating for language and potential smut later on.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: Hello readers! Welcome to our first RP story. Each Chp will be spilt in two – the first half is written by Ninotsjka1992 as Sherlock and the second half will be written by High-FunctioningGinger as John. Enjoy!**_

Disclaimer: We own nothing but the plot!

_**Sherlock**_

Sherlock is frightened. Up until this day, he had never been frightened. He's been nervous, when his father had one of his drinking binges again and his words had started to blend into each other, a tell-tale sign of his intoxication and a warning for him to make sure he got out of the room before his father got to the point where he'd get aggressive.

He's been anxious, when he had been standing in a dark alley for hours, his hands freezing and his brow furrowed, telling himself that he would only have to wait, five more minutes, the man would surely come and sell him what he needed, he always did.

He's even been scared, although he would never tell a soul, when he saw John step out of that cubicle, grey-faced and wearing that horribly large parka, only to open it slowly and reveal the semtex-vest he was wearing underneath it.

But never in his life has Sherlock been as frightened as he is right now. Never in his whole life has he experienced such a paralyzing, mind-numbing fear as he feels right now, staring at the copper numbers on that familiar door, which closed behind him three years ago, when he went to St. Bart's to meet Molly and ask for her help.

It's not the door; however, that is sending those icy shivers of fear down his spine. What he fears lies beyond that door, up those stairs lead towards the apartment he had to leave behind in order for Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John - John - to stay alive. Mycroft has been keeping tabs on the doctor for him, a favor which Sherlock will probably never be able to repay, and what he's reported over the past few years made Sherlock even more determined to reach his goal, to take out Moriarty's empire and assure that John would be safe. He knows he hurt John deeply by leaving, but at first, he hoped - expected- John to understand, if he would just listen.

But now Sherlock's standing here in front of their old apartment and finds himself unable to lift his hand and open the door, because he is frightened. Now that it's all over, now that he doesn't have to look over his shoulder again in fear of someone coming up to kill him and finish what Moriarty started, the thoughts he managed to push away for so long finally catch up with him.

What if John does not understand? What if he asks Sherlock to leave? What if he found someone and moved on? What if...

Sherlock shakes his head, willing all the questions and possible scenarios away. He has to do this. John deserves to know what Sherlock did and, most of all, why he did it. And if John does not understand, if John throws him out and never wants to see him again...

Sherlock does not know what he will do if that happens, but until he opens that door, steps in and goes up to the apartment they once shared, he will never find out. The detective takes a deep breath, steadies himself and reaches for the doorknob.

_**John**_

John lays down his pen with a sigh and rubs his tired eyes. He glances at the clock on the white-washed wall and lets out a soft groan. Thirty more minutes before he has to clock out. But his sigh isn't like those going up across the country as other tired workers prepare to leave for the day. It isn't a sigh of relief. It's a sigh of reluctance and resignation.

During the work day he can remain distracted, distant from the shadows haunting his peripheral. He can chat with his patients, fake smiles and give shallow laughs to friendly jokes. Medical data fills his mind, pushing out the darkened memories. The stethoscope hangs against his heart, pressing out the weight of mourning that rests there. But once he sheds his white coat and exits the clinic he's alone again.

He glances at the clock again, dismayed to see that another ten minutes have already passed. Why does time seem to speed by? He recalls when he was alive and there were cases to be solved and adventures to be had the hands on the clock couldn't tick fast enough for him. Minutes seemed to drag into hours, whereas now they speed by.

He does what he can to keep himself busy, reviewing patient files and going over his calendar for the seventh time. When he can't avoid it any longer he finally stands and hangs his white coat. He don's his own black tactical jacket and exits his office, locking it for the night.

He wanders down the hall at a slow pace, partially born from his reluctance to return to the flat again and partially from the limp on his leg. He barely notices it anymore; it's become part of his life once again. Resting on his came comes naturally to him, a thought which he tries to avoid as best he can.

He hails a cab when he reaches the street and as he rides he tries to cancel out the memory of Harry's phone call from the previous night.

"_Look, John, I know you're still hurting but this has got to stop."_

_"Funny, I've been saying the same thing about your drinking for nearly a decade." _

_"Well my drinking doesn't cause me to hole up in my flat like a hermit and pine over my dead flatmate!"_

John didn't bother responding to that and instead hung up the phone. Harry texted him through the night and the next morning apologizing and trying to explain herself.

**9:30**

John, please don't be mad.

_HW_

**10:15**

John? Answer me?

_HW_

**12:18**

John, I'm just worried about you.

_HW_

**1:37**

John, you need to move on. Please do something. Anything. Join a club, meet some girls. Anything.

_HW_

He turns her last plea over in his mind and wonders why the suggestion has no appeal to him. Well, actually he knows why. In the simplest terms it's because he's in love with Sherlock. Two and a half years later he's still in love with the bastard. He wonders if he always will be. Part of him thinks that he should take Harry's advice and move on. He may love Sherlock but that dream died with him on the pavement. Why not find someone else, or at least try to?

But he also knows that no one else would replace to Sherlock. Even if he found someone he could care for in that way he would constantly compare them to Sherlock. It wouldn't be fair to enter in a relationship when he's still in love with someone else, for either party.

He tries to push the thoughts from his mind by focusing on the mundane. What will he have for dinner? When's rent due? Oh god - It's his mum's birthday in a week. He needs to get a card.

"Baker street" the cabbie announces when they arrive and John is suddenly, painfully reminded of the first time he heard the address. _"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."_

He tries to mask his wince and hand over the required cash, and then climbs from the cab. He limps inside and quickly up the stairs, wanting to avoid Mrs. Hudson if possible. She and Harry have been talking lately and the last thing he wants is another "Move on" speech. He makes it to the door unhindered and reaches for the knob. It's unlocked.

He tries to calm his rising worry but telling himself it was probably just Mrs. Hudson dropping something off. But she always locked the door after her if John wasn't there. Drawing a deep, shaking breath he twists the handle and pushed the door open.

**If convenient please review; if inconvenient review anyway.**


	2. Chapter 2

**_Enjoy! _**

_**Sherlock**_

Sherlock doesn't know what to expect when he enters the flat. The hallway is still the same, the second stair still creaks when he steps on it and he freezes, fearing that Mrs. Hudson may have heard and come out. When this does not happen, he forces himself to relax and climbs the rest of the stairs.

The door does not make any sound as he turns the handle, letting it swing open slowly as he takes in the sight. The flat has not changed one bit. The mis-matched armchairs face each other next to the fireplace, the skull is still on the mantlepiece and the violin is still at the window, exactly where he put it after playing for the last time.

Sherlock gulps and steps over the threshold, closing the door behind him without making any sound. It's evident that John is not home - his coat is missing, as is his cane - which, according to Mycroft, has come back into use since _that_day. There is something else, though, that catches Sherlock's eye when he looks around. He reaches out slowly and takes the dark blue scarf that's hanging on the coat rack, running his hands over the soft material while new questions arise in his mind.

John has kept his scarf, the scarf Sherlock was wearing when he leapt off the roof. He's kept the skull, he never touched the violin, he did not move the chair. A quick glance into the kitchen reveals that John did not throw away Sherlock's chemistry equipment either. The detective drops the scarf on the kitchen table and walks back into the living room, absentmindedly picking up his violin. He plucks the strings, only to scoff at how badly off key the violin has gotten. He will have to tune it as soon as he's talked to J-

Sherlock drops the violin onto the sofa and groans in frustration. He's come so far, he's actually in the flat - _their flat_ - right now, but the thought of having to talk to John still freaks him out. Rubbing his face with his right hand, he decides to go to his room - if it actually still _is_his room - and take a short nap, just a very short nap, to gather up a bit more courage for when the inavitable happens and he has to face John.

His feet lead him towards his old room without hesitation. When he opens the door, Sherlock is almost relieved to see that his room, just like the livingroom, is untouched. The sheets are dusty, though, so he shakes them out briefly before taking off his old sneakers and the hideous jacket he's wearing - Mycroft insisted on him wearing something that makes him less recognizable, but even so, he could have provided Sherlock with something more _him_- and flops down on the bed. He's asleep before he knows it.

The years of chasing down criminals left Sherlock alert and a very light sleeper. So when he hears the unmistakable sound of footstept on the stairs and a doorknob being turned, he's wide awake and out of bed in less than a second. The steps he hears are unsure and hesitating and a voice in the back of his head tells him that it might be an unwanted guest. Sherlock scowls and retrieves his gun from the pocket of his jacket before making his way towards the door. If he missed an assassin, even if it's only one, then John is still in danger. He'll have to take care of this right now, before John returns.

Holding his gun out in front of him, Sherlock braces himself for the worst and opens the door.

**_John_**

John finds himself wishing he had his service pistol and he slowly moves through the living room. A soft, sharp breath comes from the kitchen, near _his_old bedroom and John turn's swiftly towards it. He cautiously makes his way into the kitchen, careful to remain quiet.

He doesn't know who would be after him, or why but his time in the war and with Sherlock taught him that whether he knew it or not he had enemies and it was best to be as cautious as possible.

He grabs a knife from the counter as he approaches the source of the noise. There is a sudden movement from Sherlock's bedroom, the door open and a shadowed figure appears. John raises the knife and asks in a chilling calm voice "Who are you and what are you doing in my flat?"

**_Hello dear readers and fellow Johnlockians. A message little message from Ninotjska1992 today, who published this chapter. Thank you for reading, your patience and, of course your reviews. _**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi guys! Since Kathson is on holiday, I - Ninlock - am updating again. This is a VERY short chapter, but we promise there'll be more soon.**

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**_Sherlock_**

Sherlock blinks against the sudden light that engulfs him and the figure in the hallway. His eyes are slow to adjust and the person in front of him slowly swims into vision. His breathing halts.

It's John, _his_ John, looking tired, pale and much, much older than ever. The bags under his eyes are larger, his hairs seems to have more grey streaks than the last time Sherlock laid his eyes on his beloved doctor and his whole demeanor has changed so much from what the detective remembers. This is a broken man, he realizes with a pang of guilt.

_John, what did I do to you?_

"I said, who are you and what are you doing in my flat?" The doctor does not sound calm this time. There's rage boiling in his voice and now that his eyes have adjusted to the light, Sherlock sees the tension in his arm and hand. The hand in which he holds the knife.

The detective lowers his gun slowly, avoiding sudden movements to prevent John from thinking he's being attacked and hurting Sherlock or himself. He bends down, not taking his eyes off of John, and places the weapon at his feet before rising again, keeping his movements slow and clear.

John seems confused and Sherlock can't blame him, but he has more important things on his mind. He licks his lips, takes a deep breath...

"John, I'm home."

**_John_**

Time stills as the words wash over him. "John, I'm home." The words are spoken in _his_ voice. No one has a voice like his. It's unmistakable and a surge of giddy glee rips through him as his mind wrestles with the only possible solution.

_Sherlock is alive_. Impossible. But it's the only explanation and it's confirmed as the shadowed figure steps from the door-frame into the kitchen an proper light. John's thoughts seemed to have flat-lined because this shouldn't,couldn't be real.

He stumbles back, almost as if dealt a blow and gives a firm shake of his hand. "No." he protests, hold a hand in the air, as if willing away his vision. He's finally lost it. Hallucinations, vivid one, not the occasional shadows in the corners of his eye, are the real deal. "NO!" he nearly shouts this time, swiping his hand in the vision's direction, intending to cut clean through the form like a cloud. That should banish it from his mind. Surely.

But instead his hand comes in contact with cool,smooth flesh. Firm bone. Muscle. Shock echos through his being, and emits from his mouth in a sudden sharp gasp, to unlike those that come after being dealt a painful blow. His hand clasps Sherlock's  
with a vice grip akin to desperation. He can feel each individual bone move in Sherlock's hand as he squeezes it.

Sherlock remains silent, but there is a wince at strength of John's grip,so he softens it, instead running a thumb over Sherlock's skin in further confirmation of his existence._"He's real. He's alive. He came back to me._

The thought jolts John from his dream-like state with a flood of torrid emotions and blind rage blacks all other out. _"That conniving bastard! Fucking lunatic, screwing with my emotions, with my life like that."_ Before he can fully process what he's doing his fist it flying threw the air, to contact Sherlock's face.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Hello all! Kathson here, back from hiatus and updating for you. Hope you all had a lovely holiday and New years! Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews. Enjoy!**_

**Sherlock**

"Here." Sherlock looks up and sees John all but thrust an ice-pack wrapped in a tea-towel at him. The doctor is avoiding his eyes, his lips pressed tightly together as a sign that he is still furious at Sherlock, but at least he isn't shouting anymore.

The detective accepts the pack with a muttered_ 'thanks'_ and pressed it against his now certainly swollen jaw, groaning with relief as the cold immediately numbs the throbbing while John sits down in his armchair.

Silence descends upon them, a pressing, tense silence, during which John avoids making any eye contact with Sherlock, yet never taking his eyes off the detective.

Sherlock fiddles a bit with a corner of the tea towel, not sure where to start, where to look, where to put the hand that isn't pressing the ice-pack to his jaw.

"Tell me why." It's a very simple request - no, not a request, an order - but Sherlock hears every question John is asking.

_Why did you leave, why did you hurt me, why didn't you let me help, why didn't you tell me, where have you been..._ The unasked questions buzz around in his head and he wills himself to calm down, take a deep breath and force the questions back and down.

"Sherlock." Dangerous now. John is getting impatient, impatient in a way that tells Sherlock that if he doesn't come up with a damn good explanation, he'll find himself out the door in no time.

"He was going to kill you." Sherlock blurts it out, just like that, because it's the most simple and effective way to start his story.

When John raises an eyebrow, Sherlock starts babbling. "Moriarty. He had snipers, three of them, ordered to shoot you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson unless he called them off or they saw me jump and I had anticipated something so I had Molly help me fake it, but then I realized that if I were to turn up again, they might come back and finish the job and I couldn't let that happen, John, I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if you died because of me and I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, I wanted to come back, I really did, but I had to finish it, I had to take them all out or everything would have been for naught John and I, I-"

Sherlock's voice breaks and he suddenly realized that his breathing is accelerating, short fast breaths forcing themselves out of his lungs, making the room spin and his vision blacken as he desperately tries to calm down, to regain his control.

And then he's pulled against a warm, firm chest, a strong arm around his waist and a hand forcing his ear against John's chest, right where his heart is. The ice-pack drops to the floor, but Sherlock doesn't care, focusing on the calm, steady heartbeat he can hear through John's jumper as the doctor holds him tight. Slowly, his breathing evens out and Sherlock finds himself calming down, sighing contently as he pressed just a tiny bit closer to John, his John, who keeps on holding him until he's calmed down.

**John**

When Sherlock's breathing finally steadied to a normal rate, John released. He didn't want to, it he was honest with himself. A desperate urge to cling to him was eating at John's iron control.

He had Sherlock back, by some miracle, and he didn't want to let him go again. But he did, for various reasons.

Before all of _this _Sherlock had very severe personal boundaries. He would disregard other's without a thought, but penetrate his and you _were lucky_ if he reduced you to tears.

Sherlock's defense system was vital to him and John wasn't about to risk what friendship they still had left for his own foolish desires.

But he also doesn't want to delude himself. Yes, Sherlock is alive. He's home. But this isn't going to be easy for either of them. They won't be able to slip easily back into their previous routine and lifestyle.

Not when the memory of Sherlock's leap and bleeding skull are still as sharp as they were the day he witnessed them. Not when three miserable, desolate years hang like thick smog between them.

As he backs from Sherlock he thinks he glimpsed something, disappointment, perhaps? But with a breath it's gone and he's sure it's just his addled mind.

He draws a steadying breath and tries for a smile. "I think I need a cup of tea." he murmurs and turns from Sherlock. He can't resist laying a gentle hand on his arm as he goes.

He brews the tea on auto-pilot. Sherlock has moved to the living room, allowing John his space for a few moments. A rare glimpse of consideration on his part, but an important one.

They're both about to face on the most intense experiences of their lives head on. John needs a few moments to collect his thought and ensure he's fully in control of himself.

He doesn't want to slip up and clock Sherlock in the face again. But the anger is still bubbling under the surface. He doesn't want to break down into sobs. But the months, piled into years of grief are still dammed within him.

But most of all he doesn't want to weaken and kiss Sherlock. Because while grief and anger where festering inside him for the past three years, another emotion grew. Well, it didn't exactly grow because it already existed inside him. But it all came to light, a rush, a realization, with sudden, painful clarity after his supposed death.

A shadow of the thought, almost a premonition, circled his mind in the months before Sherlock's jump, but he shoved it aside with stalwart determination. But after Sherlock's funeral it all came crumbling down. He loved Sherlock, he'd realized and the sentiment still rings true, but right now he most certainly doesn't want to act on it.

_"Friendship first"_ he reminds himself as he brings two steaming mugs into the living room. _"Salvage whatever we've got left. Make sure we're still good. Maybe after the dust has settled."_ he tells himself.

Sherlock takes the mug and murmur a_ 'thanks'_. Whether it's for the tea of for being so understanding through the entire ordeal, John isn't sure.

But he doesn't linger on the thought. Instead he asks the question he's been wondering to himself for the past three years. "Where have you been?"


	5. Chapter 5

_**Hello all, Kathson updating again You're getting this a bit ahead of schedule, but we have enough material for a few chapters ahead. Enjoy!**_

_**Sherlock**_

Sherlock folds his hands about the warm mug - his own, he notices - and stares at the thin steam floating up towards the ceiling. It's such a simple gesture, John making tea for the both of them without even bothering to ask. What follows, however, is not so simple.

John has retaken his place in his chair, his own mug in his hands, and focuses on the detective, who desperately tries not to squirm under the gaze. Sherlock detects no anger in the doctor's eyes, but he knows John is not satisfied. He will have to tell John everything and even then, he is not sure John will be able to handle it all.

Sherlock is still contemplating how to start his story when John suddenly speaks up. "Where have you been?" The detective looks up, meeting John's gaze and - to his surprise - holding it. The doctor cocks his head a bit, urging him to answer the question.

Sherlock shrugs. "Everywhere. You name it, I've been there." John nods slowly and Sherlock knows he needs to elaborate. "Moriarty had... a very large web. Assassins, torturers, forgers, anything. And wherever they were or went, I knew I had to find them." _To keep you safe,_ he adds mentally, but doesn't say it.

John frowns. "So this was about Moriarty, then?"

Sherlock almost shakes his head; he wants to shake his head. How can John think that he faked his own suicide that he spent three years of his life away from his beloved doctor, only because of some petty consulting criminal? Sherlock wants to explain, he desperately wants to explain, but John is on his feet already, turning away from him when he starts to pace.

"Three years, Sherlock. You faked your own suicide, you made me believe you were dead and put me through a living hell, all because of _him_?" John puts his hands on the mantelpiece, his fingers clenching tightly around the chipped edge. "I know you're not good with people, Sherlock, but this... even you should have known that you don't do this to someone who... considers you a friend."

Sherlock flinches at the tone in John's voice, the obvious hurt in his words. What hurts even more, though, is the fact that John just called him a friend. A friend. He should have known that that was all he would ever be to John, if John even considered them still to be friends after all of this.

"John, I'm... I'm sorry."

The doctor lets out a laugh that has no happiness in it. "You're sorry? And why would I believe you, Sherlock? How can I ever trust you again?"

And Sherlock finds himself unable to answer.

_**John**_

John knows the words are harsh, but not unprecedented. Sherlock had turned his world upside-down and inside out when he jumped. Everything John thought he'd known about Sherlock had been thrown into question.

And now he's here wanting, what? Forgiveness? For everything to return to normal? John's not sure.

He wishes Sherlock would speak. He wants him to say something, _anything._ To own up to the pain and suffering he caused. To _explain._ Not in a logical, pragmatic way. Not by giving the facts what lead to his fake suicide. But the motivations, the thoughts, the _emotions_ that caused him to skydive off a roof three years ago.

But Sherlock remains silent, watching John with pleading eyes. Pleading him to what? To understand? To believe? John snorts at the thought.

"You know what's funny?" he asks, with a hollow mirthless laugh.

Sherlock draws a breath and murmurs quietly "What?" as if he's unsure whether or not he wants an answer.

John sets his tea-cup down with a harsh clatter before answering. "I spent the last three years defending your memory. Telling people that you were real and whatever happened on that day was just some twisted, fucking disaster."

Sherlock flinches, though whether it's at the profanity or the anger that's crept back into his tone he can't be sure. John pays no attention to his discomfort and continues in a chillingly casual voice.

"You know there was this street campaign started about you? 'Believe in Sherlock Holmes.' it was. Painted on walls and the sides of abandoned houses and posted on street poles. And I was right there with it the whole time. Now..." the last word is chocked off roughly as John wrangles with himself.

"Now I don't know why I bothered. I feel like a bloody hypocrite cause you're standing here asking me to trust you, to believe you and I can't do it. You say you're sorry but you're going to have to prove that to me. I can't take your word for it anymore."

John sits back in his chair, having finished his piece. He watches Sherlock's mind whir with thoughts, gasping for a solution to this puzzle.

There is an unusual desperation in his eyes as he searches for the answer and for a moment John finds himself touched.

Resolving this, righting their friendship really does seem important to Sherlock. _"That's got to count for something."_ he thinks to himself, then awaits Sherlock's reaction.


	6. Chapter 6

**_And today, it's Ninotsjka's turn to update! We're currently working on a plotline and it's going well. We hope you enjoy this chapter!_**

_**Enough babbling, on with the story.**_

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**_Sherlock_**

Defeat.

That's all Sherlock can feel right now. He tries to think, tries to come up with a response - a proper response - that will explain everything, a response that will take away the pain and - most importantly - that aweful look of hurt, disappointment and _hate_on John's face. He has to make the doctor know that he is sorry, that he is more sorry than he has ever been.

But how? The detective chews on his lower lip as he tries to form the words, but every sentence he comes up with sounds wrong and incomplete and he know he can't fuck this up, because if he does, if he says something that is not the complete truth, than John will be gone, lost to him forever.

He stares at the doctor, who stares back at him as if he's challenging him, _daring_ him to say something, anything. Sherlock unfolds his legs, which were tucked underneath him on the couch, and fiddles with the ear of his mug. He runs through his Mind Palace, searches every room for something, _anything_that could help, even remotely. His search gets more and more desperate when he finds nothing; there must be something, something he can use to tell John just how sorry he is.

A huff from the doctor pulls Sherlock out of his Mind Palace. John has gotten out of his chair, a look of disappointment on his face. "I'm going out. By the time I'm back, I want you to be gone."

Sherlock stiffens. His mind chants a chorus of _'no, no, no, no'_, but he sits frozen as John limps away from him, his face determined as he reaches for his coat, pulling it on almost robotically. His face shows no emotion, but his whole body language breathes pain and loss and something Sherlock can't and won't name. He grabs his cane, hesitates for a moment and then he walks towards the door, ready to step out of the flat and out of Sherlock's life.

_Forever._

Something in Sherlock's mind clicks, falls into place and he's out of his chair in a second. "John, wait."

The doctor halts, his hand on the door knob. He does not turn around, but Sherlock sees the tension and the anticipation in his shoulders and he doesn't know what he's doing, but he's doing it anyway, because he cannot let John step out of his life, not after all this, after everything he did to make sure John would live.

His body seems to move through water. Everything moves slowly, blurred and he finds his limbs heavy as he walks over to John, who has turned halfway around to look at him.

It's those eyes that make him leap forwards. Before Sherlock knows what he's doing, he's standing in front of John, turning him around so they're facing each other properly. He has no idea what to do - he's never done this before - but when those deep blue eyes gaze into his and he sees the tiny, almost invisible spark of hope in them, he looses all his control and he presses his lips against John's, pouring everything he has into it. He feels John stiffen and fears he will pull away, so he grabs the back of his neck and pulls him closer, holding the doctor to him and clinging to him for dear life.

Because it was John Hamish Watson who made Sherlock do it. John is the reason he jumped, the reason he left, the reason Sherlock kept going, kept on fighting and, above all, John is the reason Sherlock Holmes returned.

**_John_**

"John,wait!" the words came out with a ragged desperation to their tone and despite his cold fury and throbbing hurt, John paused, complying with Sherlock's request.

His mind's furious dialogue did nothing to propel him forward._"Wait for what Sherlock? You obviously don't have anything to say to me. Wait? What do you think I've been doing for the past three years you fucking bastard?!"_

But his harsh thoughts remained unspoken as he heard Sherlock rise from the chair and soft foot-falls approach him.

He knew, before Sherlock lay a hand on him, what Sherlock was trying to do. "_ I should just go now."_ he tells himself. _"If I turn and face him,look at those damned eyes again there is no way I'll be able to walk out. That's what I should do. We can't work. Not anymore. What're you doing? Just walk!"_his mind screamed at him as Sherlock's soft hand landed upon his shoulder, turning him easily about to face him.

A sharp breath tore from his lungs as he realized that _this_isn't what he'd counted on at all. Sherlock's pleading, begging, with those damned eyes and desperate voice. That he expected. That he could manage. Not this.

This will complicate things, twist and puzzle them even more, it's not a good idea, he knows. But he doesn't turn away. He can't. Because now Sherlock's leaning forward, eyes searching his and he knows he can't hide anything anymore. Sherlock's read him entirely and knows the love that wells withing for Sherlock.

Tainted by grief and boiled by anger, but there it remains. It's now such a part of John that his reaction is instinctual. When Sherlock's soft lips press against his, searchingly, pleadingly and Sherlock's hand wraps around his neck, drawing him closer, John melts into the kiss. There's nothing else to be done.

And he's suddenly bombarded. He's heard reference of people conveying emotion through touch, through kisses and such but to be honest he always thought it was a far-fetched idea. Not anymore. Pain, grief, desperation, fear all pour from Sherlock's lips into John's understanding.

Flashes of scene play like a high-speed movie in his mind as he wrangles with this new, emotionally intense side of Sherlock. Sherlock, planning and plotting his own demise, Moriarty casually threatening his world with a grin, Secret glances in John's direction, subtle sadness hidden within his eyes. Months in the cold. Desolate, empty hotel rooms. Fire-fights.

And suddenly it's all too much and John's shoving Sherlock off, stumbling back, shaking his head as if to free it off the images rooted there. They both stand, drawing deep unsteady breaths, waiting for the other's reaction. It's all there now, out in the open. Everyone has lay their cards on the table.

_"It was all for me. It was for us"_John realizes with a sudden, startlingly painful clarity. Sherlock did this for the chance, for the hope of what they might be once the world righted itself again.

Sherlock speaks, his voice a quiet whisper, mingled with fear and hope "John?" is all he says. A simple question with a thousand connotations.

John draws a deep breath, mind still whirling and says in a rough whisper "I'm going out. Just for a bit - I - I need to think." he turns and reaches for the door before adding "Be sure you're _here_ when I get back." and then he opens it and exits.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Hello dear readers! Sorry for the delay on this, we were both very busy last week. We hope you enjoy!_**

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**_Sherlock_**

As soon as John closes the door behind him, Sherlock crumbles. His hands shake, his head is spinning and suddenly, his knees buckle and he finds himself sinking onto the floor. He releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding and assesses the new development.

He had kissed John. No. He had kissed John and John had kissed him in return. _They_ had kissed.

Sherlock brings his hand up to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to make sense of all the thoughts and _emotions_ that are currently whirling around in his mind.

He is confused, that's for sure. Confused at himself, at John, at everything that happened in the last minutes. John had always insisted on being straight, always having his 'I'm not gay' on his lips even when people just _looked_ at the two of them, denying everything over and over again to the point of desperation, as if...  
As if he had been trying to convince himself.

The detective inhales sharply as he remembers that look in John's eyes - it had only been there for a moment, just before he'd closed his eyes - just before he'd kissed him. There had been something there, something...

And then there was the fact that, although John _had_ gone out as he said, he'd asked Sherlock to stay. No, he had _demanded_ Sherlock to stay. And although Sherlock knows that this is far from over, the fact that John doesn't want him to leave anymore has him hoping. Hoping they will get through this.

His thoughts are interupted by a growl from his stomach and he can't help but smile at the sound. He gets up slowly, feeling a lot more relaxed than before, and walks into the kitchen. A quick examination of both the fridge and the pantry shows that John has very little food and Sherlock starts to make a mental note and shopping list, before realizing that although John asked him to stay for now, that doesn't mean for certain the detective will be moving back in. This thought makes him pause, suddenly anxious again, his hunger forgotten. What if John makes up his mind at... wherever he's gone right now and decides he doesn't want Sherlock to stay after all? What if he throws him out?

The detective shakes his head, willing the dark thoughts away. If anything, John taught him not to dwell on the many possible scenarios life offers and he forces himself to focus on the toast he was making. John, apparently, still eats the same jam he used to eat and Sherlock doesn't hesitate to apply a thick layer of the sweet spread on both pieces of toast. With a plate in his hand, he returns to the sofa and curls up again. His tea has gone cold by now and he dismisses it without a second thought.

His mind drifts off again to the moment he kissed John. Although he never actually thought about it, he finds himself trying to recall the taste of John's lips, trying to compare it to other things he's tasted and to find a similar thing, if only to understand why the taste was so _exquisite_ to him. He can't put his finger on it, but there was something unique and sharp and sweet and so wonderfully _John_ about it that he finds his stomach fluttering at the thought.

And then there's the feeling of John's lips against his, his smooth neck under Sherlock's palm and, last but not least, the feeling of John kissing him back, pressing against him as Sherlock pulled him close and relaxing into the kiss, if only for a moment.

The detective smiles, a real smile, for the first time in years, and sets to wait for the doctor to return.

**_John_**

John descended the stairs slowly, in a dream-like state. Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat as he reached the bottom and called to him "John, are you alright? I thought I heard raised voices."

John hesitates briefly before lying smoothly "Just the TV, sorry. I'll try to keep it down." Mrs. Hudson gives a smile and nods, before slipping back into her flat.

John lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and continues out the door. He hated lying to her, but the _last_ they needed was a sobbing Mrs. Hudson clutching Sherlock like a relived mother when the two of them are still trying to sort out whether or not they'll have a life together. Better to wait and let her find out in her own time.

He takes to the street, the sharp chill gnawing at his coat and he wishes he'd taken a moment to slip on a jumper underneath. But he'd been to anxious to leave to think properly. He still couldn't think properly.

He'd always thought there couldn't be too much of a good things, but this entire evening was proving him wrong. The impossibilities where piling up and it was making his head spin and exhausting his mind.

He wasn't sure which was more surprising, the fact that Sherlock kissed him or the fact that Sherlock was _alive_ to kiss him. Everything that had happened were things he'd hoped for, longed for desperately but never thought he'd actually see them happen. And here they are, layed out on a table in front of him.

He passes the pub he used to frequent in the years before, when Sherlock was in a black mood of boredom and John needed escape. Old habits die hard.

He passes it instead of going inside, because now isn't the time. But he laughs, with a bit of genuine humour in his smile, when he thinks that this could be just another night between the two of them. Having had a "little domestic." John would take to the streets and Sherlock would wait for him to return and they'd sort it out. Or ignore the issue until it popped up again.

It's almost as if the three years didn't exist and the world was already righting itself. returning to it's normal mode of function. John and Sherlock together as things should be. But it wasn't that simple.

They still needed to decide how this was all going to work. then he realized with sudden clarity that _he_ was the one who needed to decide. Sherlock had already made his decision, he'd already made his move. By coming back for John, pleading with him, kissing him, he'd made a point of letting John know that he wanted them to be what they used to, perhaps more. and now he was sitting in the flat awaiting John's decision.

John reached up to rub his hands over his face in frustration, then realized his hands were _empty_ completely empty. No cane was clasped between his fingers. No pain throbbed at his leg.

_Who the hell do I think I'm kidding. I can't function without the bastard."_ he thinks suddenly and realizes his decision has been reached. There was never really a decision to begin with, just his defensive system trying to prevent further harm. But he's too deep in to pull back now.

The early days of their friendship was rough, learning each other, side-stepping boundaries and growing to understand the other's functions. This would be the same, just more intense. And suddenly John finds himself looking forward to the fire-fight.

Not wanting to bother walking back for another half-hour he hails a cab and books it to Baker street. It takes less than fifteen minutes and he practically leaps from the car as it pulls to a stop. He tosses some bills at the driver and is inside and up the steps in no time flat.

When he opens the door to 221B he spots Sherlock seated on the couch. John's face is perfectly calm and unreadable. He can see the nervousness taking root in Sherlock's eyes and it's several moments before either speak. When John says nothing Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh "Shall I pack then?"

John shakes his head and smiles "No. In fact if you ever leave this flat again without me I will kill you myself."

* * *

_**If convenient, please review. If inconvenient, review anyway.**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**AN: **__**Kathson here with another update for you lovely readers. Thank you for all the wonderful reviews – Enjoy!**_

_**Sherlock**_

Sherlock allows himself to relax at John's words. He can stay, then. Closing his eyes for a moment in relief, he takes a shuddering breath and nods slowly. "Thank you, John."

"You're still an idiot," comes John's reply and Sherlock smiles, a real smile, and opens his eyes again to look at his - again - flatmate.

John is visibly calmer, he notices, the tension in his shoulders and arms gone. Also, he doesn't have his cane with him and when he walks over to Sherlock, the detective notices the absence of his limp. This makes him smile even wider.

He's back where he belongs.

"You're not off the hook, though," John says, slipping into his chair again and folding his hands.

At Sherlock's questioning gaze, he adds "Tell me everything. I want to know everything." There's acertain hardness in those words, making it clear that John wants the truth, but it's accompanied by a soft, gentle look, that encourages the detective to open up and tell John everything there is to know.

So Sherlock does. He tells John about how he deduced Moriarty's plan to break him, to ruin him and how he came up with a solution. John looks a bit offended when Sherlock mentions Molly's part in this scheme, but he does not interrupt the detective, only nods and lets him carry on.

Sherlock tells John about the travelling, about tracking down and killing each and every member of Moriarty's web, about some very dangerous locations and close calls, about the knife he used, the gun he nicked, the fights, the victories and the one time he was almost killed himself.

John turns ghastly pale at this point and Sherlock pauses his story, wondering what he can do to assure John that it's alright, but John urges him to go on and Sherlock does so.

He tells John everything, some parts with vigor, some parts with pride, some parts with sadness. He tells John, in the most gentle way he can manage, about the constant feeling of being alone and lonely, the empty hotel rooms and the long nights with no one to talk to.

And then, at last, he tells John about the strength he got from thinking of his doctor, his flatmate, how thinking of John motivated him into pulling through, how knowing that John was safe and sound gave him the power to complete his quest and, most of all, how he came to realize that what he felt for John was more than friendship, more than companionship, more than anything he'd ever felt for any person.

John blinks at that last bit, as if he awakes from a trance, and Sherlock realizes that he has gotten up from his spot on the sofa and is now kneeling at John's side, suddenly very close to the doctor. Their noses are almost touching, they're breathing in the very same air and Sherlock catches that scent that he has come to love so much.

John clears his throat and Sherlock snaps out of his thoughts. The doctor is staring at him, chewing his lower lip, and Sherlock starts to back up, thinking he's getting John uncomfortable, but then John suddenly speaks. "Sherlock... this thing we have now... what is it?"

Sherlock freezes. This is not what he expected, but when he thinks about it, he finds himself at a loss for the answer. He knows that he would like this, whatever it it, to be, but as it is now, he is unsure of what John wants from him. So he licks his lips and asks "What do you want it to be, John?"

_**John**_

"What do you want it to be John?" The question threw John for a loop. He always assumed that if by some miracle he and Sherlock ever got to the point of deciding to progress their relationship, that Sherlock would be the one to make the final call.

He was the one who scorned sentiment and romance. The one who fled from emotions and who's MO was strictly logical. He was also the one with no experience, meaning he should set the pace. Not John, who's been in dozens of relationships.

But now Sherlock is asking him to make the final call. For all the times he'd placed his life in Sherlock's hands, Sherlock was now returning the favour by placing his heart in John's. At the thought John drew a deep, ragged breath because it's a dizzying, high-inducing realization.

And what can he do but smile at Sherlock? After all, the minute he turned around at the pub he'd decided to give this, them, a shot, so there wasn't need for much discussion.

Realizing that Sherlock is still awaiting his response with baited breath John leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

"Sit back properly so I don't have to strain my neck down to see you and I'll tell you." He murmurs with a fond smile and Sherlock grins in return at his playful tone.

Sherlock back up, to sit cross-legged on the floor, hands folded into his trademark prayer position. John chews his lip for a moment as he tries to decide exactly how to explain what he wants them to be.

Finally he speaks. "You know how everyone assumed we're a couple?" he starts off and Sherlock gives a prompting nod. "Well, once, when I was arguing about it with Lestrade, explaining that I wasn't gay he cuffed me across the head."

John's halted by Sherlock raising an offended eyebrow at the DI's actions. John shakes his head to indicate it's not important and continues. "Well after a bit of swearing on my part, I asked him what it was for. He said, and I'm paraphrasing here, cause god knows I haven't got your memory, he said 'Because you're being a bloody idiot John. If your sexuality is the only thing standing between you and Sherlock then you best get over it. That man is your other half, whether you like it or not and I know that if I ever found someone like that, someone to love, wholly and completely, someone to love me, completely and wholly, then I wouldn't give a damn about their gender."

Sherlock looked surprised at the story of the DI's outburst, but didn't interrupt. John continued "He had a damn good point. But what got me is what people thought we had. They thought we were so perfect for each other, soul-mates, you could call it, that they just assumed our connection, our love, could bypass anything. Any barrier put between us, by others or ourselves, would just disintegrate."

John pauses, to draw a breath and gauge Sherlock's reaction to this. To his surprise Sherlock isn't protesting any of this. Not the use of the metaphor of soul-mates or the foolishly sentimental tone that John has taken. He isn't mocking John for believing in a love that can conquer all. He's simply watching quietly, waiting while the rest of his life hangs in the balance.

Taking heart from this John continues "What I'm trying to get at, through all this rambling is to say that what I want, is for us to be exactly what everyone assumed we were."

Sherlock lets out a sharp breath akin to relief and smiles "As do I." he murmurs. John breaks out suddenly into a giggle, and tries to smother it, but it catches and soon Sherlock is consumed by giggles as well.

"Th-this is - it's - well - ridiculous-really." John manages through breaths of laughter.

"Wh-what?" Sherlock asks, trying to calm himself, and failing every time he catches sight of John.

"J-just -" John clears his throat, forcing the laughter to subside and explains with a wry smile. "Just that I spent nearly three years of my life denying my affections for you, three years wishing I could reveal them to you and now..." he trails off.

Sherlock takes up the rest of the sentence "And you'll spend the next three convincing me this relationship stuff is worth it all." he quips playfully.

"How am I supposed to do that?" John asks, with a barking laugh.

Sherlock shrugs, with a sly smile and answers "I'm sure you'll think of something.


	9. Chapter 9

_**AN: Hello dear readers! I'm so, terribly sorry about the delay in updates! Things have gotten busy for us – but I promise more consistent updates in the future! For now – Enjoy!**_

_**Sherlock**_

During the next couple of days, things slowly return to normal at 221B Baker Street. Apart from a couple of incidents - such as Mrs. Hudson walking into their flat without knocking and nearly having a heart-attack at seeing Sherlock lounging on the sofa in his old blue robe or Lestrade gaping like a fish at the both of them when they come strolling into Scotland Yard like nothing ever happened - they resettle themselves quite easily. It isn't until about a week after Sherlock's return that the detective finds himself at a loss again.

Ever since they confessed their feelings to each other - or rather, ever since Sherlock confessed and John listened and they realized that a romantic relationship was something they both actually wanted - Sherlock has tried to act like a person in love. This behavior included casually touching John - something he'd done before, but never as much or with the tenderness he tried to put into it now - and trying to get him to respond. The problem was... John _didn't._

He debates with himself about it, he spends hours in his mind palace and he even tries to ask Molly about it - which doesn't end well, as she turns bright red and teary-eyed when he even mentions it -, but he can't find a solution to his problem.

The thing that baffles him most is that John never initiates any contact; it's always Sherlock who brushes their hands together or presses a brief kiss to John's cheek whenever he gets the chance. And when Sherlock does such a thing, he can see that John enjoys it. The doctor either sighs or his eyelashes flutter, but he never returns the favor and it's driving Sherlock up the wall.

Why would John, who made it quite clear that he wants this with Sherlock, not act upon his feelings?

Sherlock scoffs and mutters something, which draws the attention of the doctor, who's reading a book in his chair, as the detective is sprawled out on the couch, his long limbs dangling from the armrest and cushions.

John puts his book down. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Is something wrong?"

Sherlock doesn't answer right away. Instead, he folds his hands like he always does, contemplating what would be the best way of responding to John's question.

He can feel the doctor's eyes on him, but he won't answer his gaze just yet. Eventually, he slowly turns his head towards John, who's looking a bit worried by now.

"Why won't you touch me?"

John blinks slowly, as if it takes a while before the question sinks in. "Sherlock, what do you mean?"

The detective rolls his eyes; John should know by now that he hates repeating what he said. "I mean it exactly as I say it, John. You won't touch me. You won't kiss me or hold my hand or anything else, while I can see that when I do such things, you enjoy it. When I asked you what you wanted, you said you wanted a relationship, so why aren't you touching me?"

John seems a bit baffled at the question, but when he answers Sherlock, he does so with sincerity. "Sherlock, I do want a relationship with you. It's just that... well, I know that you have never been in a relationship and I have and I don't want to scare you off, so I thought you should set the pace. And I'm perfectly comfortable with taking it slow, honest, we can take it as slow as you want-," he starts babbling at this point, but Sherlock has heard enough.

"John, shut up." The doctor promptly shuts his mouth with an almost audible 'click'. Sherlock sits up and turns towards John, making sure he has his full attention before he starts to talk himself.

"John, although I have never been in a relationship before, I am perfectly aware of what a relationship entails. Furthermore, I trust you. I know that you won't hurt me or force me or do anything I don't want or like."

He looks John in the eye, assuring that the doctor has heard and understood what he just said, before giving him a small smirk and adding, "And if you were to do anything I don't like, I could fight you off in no time."

John actually grins at that. "You know you can't."

Sherlock laughs and replies in mock-offence "Is that a challenge, my dear docto-oof!"

John tackles him before he can fully finish his sentence, grabbing him around the waist and hoisting him onto his good shoulder, pinning him there with a strong arm.

"You were saying, Sherlock?"

"Put me down!" John, however, only laughs at that and starts to spin around.

Sherlock tries to wiggle out of John's strong grasp, but he lets out a chuckle as well. "John, really, I'm getting dizzy up here!"

After a couple of more spins, John collapses himself, dropping Sherlock on top of him and they lie on the carpet, giggling and dizzy, the detective on top of his blogger.

When the dizziness starts to fade a bit, Sherlock pops himself up on his elbows, smiling down on John, who returns his smile.

"John," Sherlock says, gently stroking John's cheek with his right hand, "I want to learn. I want you to teach me how to do this properly. But that includes you initiating things as well. I want you to and I promise I will stop you as soon as I need you to."

The doctor smiles wider and answers him by pulling him down for a kiss.

_**John**_

John had never seen this side of Sherlock before. Playful, affectionate and completely uninhibited. He'd seen bits and pieces of course.

Playful when he was on the high from case-solving. Giggles, poking fun at people, sometimes _literal poking_ at him.

Affectionate in rare moments after a great threat had been defeated or a close call avoided. A soft hand upon his shoulder, a brief warm smile or unusually gentle words.

Uninhibited, well Sherlock was almost always uninhibited, sometime too much so. Self-control wasn't known to be one of his strong points.

But this combination of all three was a heady one, flipping his world around, because this Sherlock isn't the one he knows. This side of him isn't one he's ever been allowed to witness and now that he has he'll do everything within his power to draw it from Sherlock's shell as often as possible.

A sudden, soft stroke from Sherlock's fingers upon his face jolts John from his musings.

Sherlock murmurs "John, I want to learn. I want you to teach me how to do this properly. But that includes you initiating things as well. I want you to and I promise I will stop you as soon as I need you to."

That is all the reassurance John needs and he pulls him gently into a kiss.

He can feel Sherlock smiling against his lips as he snakes a hand behind his neck, pulling Sherlock closer. A soft laugh forms in Sherlock's throat a John's enthusiasm, but is cut off by a soft sigh when John moves his ministrations from Sherlock's lips to his pale neck.

Soft, searching lips trail their way down the veins in his neck, across warm flesh to his collar bone. John's breathing his increased and Sherlock can feel his kisses become more fevered with every moment.

Not just feather light anymore, now they're firm, hungry and John is using every bit of his iron control to keep himself from marking Sherlock.

It's so tempting, the porcelain skin spread before him, unblemished and delectable. The urge to claim Sherlock as his own, with gentle teeth and dusty bruises; to make a statement to the rest of the world that Sherlock is finally his, is nearly too much.

But he doesn't want to unnerve Sherlock, despite Sherlock's reassurances, so he back away gently.

And just in time, too. For at that moment, as he glimpses Sherlock's dazed smile, the doorbell rings.

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_**K & N**_


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